After work

By
Jane Hirshfield /
April 24, 1984

I stop the car along the pasture edge, gather up bags of corncobs from the back, and get out. Two whistles, one for each, and familiar sounds draw close in darkness - cadence of hoof on hardened bottomland, twinned blowing of air through nostrils curious, flared. They come, deepened and muscular movements conjured out of sleep: each small noise and scent heavy with earth, simple beyond communion, beyond the stretched out hand from which they calmly take corncobs, pulling away as I hold until the mid-points snap. They are careful of my fingers, offering that animal-knowledge, the respect which is due to strangers; and in the night, their mares' eyes shine, reflecting stars, the entire, outer light of the world here.